“And I think you are a little messed up,” Michael says. “Don’t even know what year it is. So what I’m suggesting is that you stay here the night. Until the morning. And we just hang out…talk.”

“Wait,” I say. “Talk?”

Michael leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Is that something you don’t do?”

“Cut the crap. Someone just randomly appears in your lawn, someone who seems to be very confused, and your first idea is to bring him in, serve him alcohol, offer him your couch, and talk to him?”

He shrugs. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“It’s weird.”

“Some people would say it’s the responsible and neighborly thing to do.”

“Some people are wrong.”

“Or maybe I’m just a nice person.”

“Or maybe you’re an idiot for letting a stranger into your home.”

Another shrug. “The way I see it, there are two options here. One, you’re someone who needs my help.”

“And the second option?” I cross my arms and examine him. There are no telltale signs of him lying. But who can really be that selfless? He should be afraid. He should be calling the police. Hell, that’s what I would do—that’s what most people would do.

“I was hoping you could help me with that one.”

“I’m sorry?”

He takes another sip of his drink, a longer one. The ice cubes clink against one another. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his collarbone flexes just slightly while he sips. Michael’s defined enough that even small actions like that have visible effects, and I’d be lying if I said they weren’t nice to look at. The whole “jeans and T-shirt” look really does suit him.

Michael stands up and takes one step forward. I take one step back. The tango continues until my back presses against the wall and he’s less than three inches away from me. I can smell the soft scent of alcohol and lemon on his breath. I take a deep breath, though I don’t mean to; the smell just does that to me. Dad told me once that smell is the sense most tied to memories and emotions.

I believe it.

Michael puts one hand on the wall next to me. “You’re a smart guy, Andre.”

“I know that.”

He smiles, but gently. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. Or a compliment. Only saying the truth. And what I know about smart guys is, they’re the ones you gotta watch out for. The ones who always have a secret. I’d know, because I’m a smart guy too.”

Even though we’ve only spent fifteen minutes together, I know that Michael knows the effect he has on people. He revels in it.

That is the most dangerous type of boy.